Postcard From Livorno
by r4ven3
Summary: A story set during Eps 6.1 - 6.2, beginning with the canon story, but veering into AU territory, when someone who is living in Italy gets involved, and changes the course of events. (There are plot holes aplenty.) Originally a one-shot, but it got out of hand ... now a 3-shot.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: This story provides an alternative ending to "The Virus" (Eps. 6.1 and 6.2), and whilst these episodes took place over a brief period of time, I have stretched that time, to enable certain events to occur.**_

* * *

It had been just over eight months now, and she felt stronger than she had in some time …... since she'd made the decision that she had to be the one to leave. She lived in a lovely city – Livorno – which to her felt small and safe and sequestered, after the rambling density and constant clamouring of London. She now thought of Livorno as her home. She had her own flat – in the older part of the city – and her own job – in one of the many contemporary art galleries which had sprung up in this port town. For the first time in just over eight months, she could walk the streets without worrying about the possibility that someone may emerge from the shadows, recognise her, and take her back to London, where she'd stand trial for a murder she didn't commit, but for which she will most likely be convicted.

She no longer cried herself to sleep, missing home, her friends, and the people she had worked with every day. Even her longing for one particular person had been pushed to the back of her mind, where images of her old life – her life before Cotterdam – now lay forgotten and unseen, under dust covers. Whenever she had indulged herself by thinking of him, she'd reminded herself that he had never been more than a dream – an aspiration of love in a world where loving another was dangerous, and for them, it had turned deadly. She had instructed herself that the madness which had overtaken her - the heat, the day-dreaming, the stirring - could not have been love, had never been love. It had been nothing more than a longing for something which was always going to be just beyond her reach - something someone like her would never have, _could_ never have. She had heard this so often (inside her head, where most of her lengthy conversations took place) that she believed it. How could she possibly cry for something that had never been, and could never be?

Had anyone asked her, Ruth would have described herself as happy. She _was_ happy. At least, she believed she was …... that was, until she turned on the TV in her bedsit, while she sat under the window which overlooked the very blue ocean, and saw a news report of a bomb exploding on a train on the outskirts of Tehran.

She had only just arrived home from her shift at the gallery, and over a cup of tea, she found herself staring at the screen, knowing that her former employers were somehow involved. A bomb on a train. In Iran. The newsreader talked of internal unrest, of sects and plots on the government from forces of dissent within the country. Ruth believed none of it. The whole thing smacked of secret service, and some instinct deep within told her that MI-5 were involved.

She'd gone to work the next day, and then the one after, her mind only partly on the job – her job being to collate stock, and update the gallery's website. Then on the Tuesday after work, as she prepared a pasta salad for her dinner, she listened to the TV, which was permanently tuned to BBC News.

"_The death toll from the mysterious airborne virus has risen to 10, and health authorities have warned that should anyone suspect they have been exposed to the virus, they should immediately report their concerns to medical authorities._"

`Mysterious airborne virus' …... What is happening in London?

"_The Minister of Health has reported that there is no reason for panic. Exposure to the virus is only likely when direct contact is made with a person, or persons, who are symptomatic. Should contact occur, they should report to St Edwin's Hospital. Estimates place the number of infections in excess of 120_."

Harry.

For the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to think of him, to roll his name around inside her head, and then out of her mouth as a word spoken aloud into the air. Her mind ran away from her, seeing him sick and lying in hospital, a casualty of the virus. She saw him pale and sweating, his life force draining from him with every cough. She saw him dying alone, within a quarantined ward of a nameless hospital, his family and loved ones unable to be with him ….. with _her_ unable to be with him.

Her fear for his safety gave her an idea.

On each of her two days off, she visited an internet café in the centre of the city. She had used it before, when she'd wished her internet activity to remain anonymous. She had even dated Sergio, the man who managed the café. He became her friend before they had a chance to become lovers, and so he allowed her to use a computer terminal for as long as she wished.

On the first day, she used some of her old back door tactics to look into the train bombing, and then she investigated the haemorrhagic virus which was killing British citizens. It was clear to her that the train bombing and the virus were linked, but if she could discover that in less than an hour, then Malcolm and Zaf and the others already knew.

On her second day, she visited the internet café in the morning, and managed to enter the MI-5 system, where she could only stay for a few minutes at a time, to avoid her access being discovered. What she found had her logging off, and then logging into another British system, equally as sensitive as MI-5, and possibly much more dangerous. She remained within that system longer than she'd planned, and what she found there confirmed her suspicions. She logged off the terminal, and then left the café through the back door, at the end of the corridor which ran past Sergio's office. Once outside, in a lane in which there were no CCTV cameras, she headed towards the busiest part of the city, where she could lose herself in the lunchtime crowd. Whilst browsing in a shop – one of those touristy places where visitors from other parts of the world purchased memorabilia – she bought four postcards, her reasons for buying them not altogether clear, even to her.

* * *

2 days later - Thames House, London:

"It was only for a few minutes, Malcolm," Jo said, her voice hushed, so no-one could overhear. "No more than three or four. That can only be one person."

"Have you traced the source?"

"It came from an internet café in Livorno, Italy. They didn't even try to hide themselves. It was as though they were happy enough for us to know."

Malcolm looked up into the young woman's eyes. "Spit it out, Jo."

"It has to be her, doesn't it? It has to be Ruth. We need to tell Harry."

"Leave it with me."

Malcolm then turned from her, and back to his monitor. Jo recognised dismissal when she saw it.

* * *

Soon after his brief conversation with Jo, Malcolm left Thames House. He needed thinking time. He needed to work out what to do, whom to tell. What he found when he arrived home took the decision out of his hands. He had left for work early that morning, before the morning post had arrived, and so when he opened his front door, he stepped over the usual pile of bills and advertising material. He bent to pick them up, when something stood out – a white envelope, with an Italian stamp.

He left the rest of the mail on the hall stand, and carried the Italian letter into the kitchen. His mother would have long ago retired to bed. Predictably, there was a plate of hot food in the warmer, but he'd leave that for the time being. He sat at the kitchen table, and turned the letter over in his hands. It was addressed to him. He recognised her writing. Of course, he could destroy it …... leave it unopened, and burn it in the sink, scattering the ashes in the soil under his roses. He wouldn't, of course. It was unlikely the letter was for him, and so was not his to destroy.

And he was right. He carefully opened the envelope, and inside was another, slightly smaller envelope, which was sealed, and addressed to Harry. She was being careful. How very like her to protect the man she loved in this way. He lifted the sealed enveloped from the larger one, and turning that over, he noticed that she had written her address on the back, along with her name – Daniela Moreno. That was a new identity, one he had not known about.

It was just after 10 pm when he rang Harry. Thirty minutes later, there was a knock on the door.

* * *

Malcolm made them a pot of tea, while Harry retired to the den next to the kitchen, Ruth's letter in his hand. The small room next to the kitchen was Malcolm's – his personal sanctuary within the safety of his own home. His mother never entered, and he never invited her.

Malcolm dawdled over the tea-making, giving Harry time in which to read the letter from Ruth. When he entered the den, a tray between his hands, Harry was sitting back in his armchair, turning over a postcard between his fingers. Malcolm had poured them each a cup, and offered Harry a biscuit before his section head spoke.

"She's asked me to ring her," Harry said at last, looking up into the eyes of his host. Harry smiled, but it wasn't a terribly happy smile. "After all this time, she wants me to contact her. Malcolm …... I don't know if I can. I'd only just …..."

"What, Harry?"

"I'd only just …... closed all the doors to …... _that_, and now ….. this."

Malcolm sipped his tea, staring at the floor, noticing a speck of fluff on the dark carpet. He resisted the urge to get up from his chair, and remove it.

"Closed doors can always be opened," he said, hoping he didn't sound as pompous to Harry as he sounded inside his own head.

"Yes ... well ….. that goes without saying," Harry replied with barely suppressed irritation.

"I can always …..."

"What?"

"I can always put together a safe phone for you to use …... just in case."

"Just in case what, Malcolm?"

"Just in case your private phone calls are being monitored."

"I doubt anyone is still listening in. My private phone calls are …... few, and rather uninteresting to anyone other than me ….. and even then …..."

As was usual, the words Harry didn't say echoed louder between those four walls than the words he did.

Malcolm had already stood up, and unlocked a drawer in his desk, from which he retrieved a mobile phone. "Here's one I prepared earlier," he said wryly, handing the phone to Harry. "I have the number of this phone recorded, but it's best for everyone if I don't have Ruth's phone number."

Harry took the phone, turning it over in his hand, while he thought about it.

"Alright. I'll ring her …... in the morning. It's already too late to be ringing her tonight."

* * *

It was just after 6 the next morning that Harry dialled Ruth's number. As he waited for her to answer, he felt his heart pounding against his ribs. He was all at once nervous, elated, and terrified by the prospect of speaking to her. He had pushed her away – a distant memory of love not quite grasped, lost in the flurry of the attack on MI-5. He had believed himself, while not quite whole, to be well on the way to being mended. He had thought that he still functioned well …... or well enough. As he anxiously waited for her to pick up at her end, he knew he'd been kidding himself. He was still as broken as he'd been the day she'd left, the day she'd given up her life to save his own.

"Hello?"

Her voice – questioning, wary, frightened – brought it all tumbling back to him. With that one word, the wall he'd erected around himself, brick by loosened brick, crumbled and fell. That one word had wormed its way beneath his skin, to where the truth silently lay. The truth was he still loved her, and had missed her with every breath he'd taken since he'd watched her disappear from sight down the Thames.

"Daniela," he replied. "It's me."

"I know. I …... I hoped it would be you."


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm about to hang up," she said quickly, "and then I'll ring you back. Wait for my call."

And then the line went dead. Harry stared at the phone in his hand. He knew without her saying so, that Ruth was in danger; he could read it in her voice. Almost a half hour passed before his phone again rang, by which time he was about ready to call a taxi, and take the next flight to Livorno.

"Yes?" He knew his voice was clipped and tense. He was afraid for her.

"I had to use a different phone," she said quickly, "and I have to leave …... this place …... today."

"Tell me what you need."

And she did. Quickly and efficiently, she told him that she would be flying to Paris, and then taking the Eurostar to London, where, from St Pancras, she would take a taxi to a safe address, which he should text her from his safe phone to her own.

What Ruth had not had time to tell him was that her Iranian neighbour, Azar, had knocked on her door the evening before, informing her that Sergio's internet café had closed, the sign on the door saying that closure would be indefinite. Azar used the café every other day, to contact her Italian born husband, who worked in Iran. Ruth knew then that she had to be gone from Livorno as soon as it could be arranged.

* * *

Once Harry's phone conversation with Ruth ended, he rang Ros, giving her a list of instructions.

"You have this on good authority?" she said.

"None but the very best."

"Which you're not about to tell me."

"No, I'm not."

"To protect the source."

"Yes. You know how this works, Ros."

"Unfortunately, I do."

"You have to be the one to do this. Adam is in quarantine, and I need Jo to stay in London. You'd best take a couple of junior officers – Matt and Nadeem fit the bill – and make sure you're all armed and ready, just in case things get out of hand."

"We'll need a helicopter, Harry."

"I'll arrange it."

He did, and once that call ended, he rang the private line of Dr Gregor Campbell, at Porton Down in Wiltshire.

"Just don't let those cowboys at Boscombe Down shoot down the helicopter carrying my agents," Harry had said, after he'd outlined his plan to Campbell. "And I would appreciate it were you to have all vials of the vaccine, _and_ Farrin Parsi ready when my agents land."

"What do you plan to do with Farrin?"

"What do you think?"

"You can't kill her. She's brilliant."

"Of course we won't kill her," Harry replied irritably. "That would be murder ... but brilliant or not, she's overseen the development of the vaccine for a pathogen developed by the US, and then sold on to Iran, where it was modified, _and_ she's done this right under MoD noses. I suggest there's enough evidence to implicate you, Gregor."

"Hang on a minute, Harry. You, of all people, should know about plausible deniability."

"So long as you allow her and her vaccine to be handed over to my officers, you can call it whatever you like."

"Just take care of her, Harry. She's one of our best."

"She'll be treated according to MI-5 procedure. She'll be questioned. That's all you need know. You may like to re-advertise her position. I doubt she'll be back."

It was only once he was driving to work, cocooned from the temporary madness of the panic on the streets of London, that he was again free to think about Ruth. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't give top priority to her safety. There was a more immediate threat – a threat to the population of this island, each person equally as innocent as Ruth. And yet …... and yet, he couldn't _not_ take care of her. As important as she was to him, she had once also been important to the nation, as he was sure she could be again.

Before he made his way to Thames House, Harry called in on the Home Secretary, to inform him of the latest developments. The airborne haemorrhagic plague would be halted in its tracks, but relations between the UK and Iran may take longer to heal.

As soon as Harry stepped on to the Grid, he headed to his office to make more phone calls, and to check progress with Jo. It was close to lunchtime when he called Malcolm Wynn-Jones into his office, and what he said had Malcolm packing his desk, and handing over the remainder of his tasks for the day to Jo.

"Keep in touch," he said to Jo. "Just to be on the safe side, you might like to bring up the CCTV system at Porton Down – both inside, and outside the facility. Harry will fill you in on the details."

And then Malcolm left the Grid. He would return when his off-Grid task was complete.

* * *

When Ruth stepped off the Eurostar at St Pancras, she wore a hijab given her by Azar Amadio, her neighbour in Livorno.

"If you want to be anonymous, what better way is there?" Azar had said, handing Ruth the black garment. "We all look the same while wearing one of these."

Ruth looked around her as she was jostled by the other passengers, all hurrying towards the exit. Azar was right. No-one noticed her, and those who did soon averted their eyes, or looked at her with fear, and then averted their eyes. Once she had settled in the back seat of a taxi, she gave the driver Malcolm Wynn-Jones' home address.

"You must have heard of this plague," the driver said to her, once he'd entered the stream of traffic on Euston Road.

"I have, yes."

"You're English, then?" the driver replied, eye-balling her in the rear view mirror.

Ruth internally kicked herself. How hard would it have been to fake an Iranian accent, especially since she'd been living next door to an Iranian woman for the past four months. "My husband is from Syria," she said, breaking eye contact.

"Mmm, tricky people, Syrians."

Ruth nodded, and for the remainder of the journey, she stared out the window at the London streetscape. Other than fewer people on the streets, there was no indication that days ago, a deadly pathogen had been released in London.

* * *

Malcolm's face, once he realised the woman on his doorstep wearing a hijab was Ruth, was definitely worth the price of her plane ticket to London.

"Ruth! Sorry, where are my manners?" he said, grasping her elbow with one hand, and her bag with the other, as he drew her through the door, and into his house. "It's wonderful to see you," he added.

Ruth stood in front of him, and quickly removed the hijab, revealling her usual clothing of skirt and jacket. "Phew," she said, "I don't know how they wear this every day, but it does have its advantages." Relieved of her extra layer of clothing, Ruth smiled up at Malcolm. "It's lovely to see you, too."

"I've made us a cuppa."

"Lovely. Thank you."

For the first fifteen minutes they sat at the dining table over their cups of tea, exchanging small talk, and then Ruth asked the question she'd wanted to ask ever since she first saw the BBC News reporting the outbreak of the illness in London.

"How is he, Malcolm? How is he _really_? The casualties in Iran, and then this …. this plague …... that level of tragedy ... it always ….. hurt him deeply."

Malcolm nodded. "He's coping …... but only just. It will help him …... your being here."

"Good," Ruth replied, looking up at Malcolm, an unspoken question in her eyes.

"There's a safe house being prepared for you. It's one which MI-6 no longer use, and it's been left empty for a while, so the cleaners are spending the day there."

"The electronic cleaners, you mean?"

"Those – yes – and the other kind. It needs some TLC, and a lick of paint here and a nail or two there, plus it has to be kitted out. I'm to deliver you there after 8 tonight."

"Why after 8?"

"Well," Malcolm said, smiling across the table at her, "it will be dark, and also, hopefully, the vaccine will be in the hands of the immunology team at St Edwin's Hospital, and …..."

"The crisis will be over."

"Hopefully, and Harry …... well, Harry wants to be there to greet you."

Ruth shared a roast dinner with Malcolm and his mother. It was an easy, relaxed meal, and Ruth enjoyed listening to Malcolm's mother share stories about the early days of her marriage to Malcolm's father. When, at 8.30, Malcolm indicated they should leave, Ruth gave the elderly woman a hug, and kissed her cheek. "It was lovely to meet you, Ruth," Mrs Wynn-Jones said.

"She won't natter to the neighbours about me, will she?" Ruth said, as Malcolm turned his car south-west, towards Holland Park.

"No. She gets people's stories all muddled, anyway. By tomorrow, she'll be telling Shirley – that's our neighbour – that I brought my cousin around to see her. She loved meeting you, Ruth, but by this time next week, it will have slipped her mind."

* * *

"Maida Vale! I thought the secret service was broke."

"MI-6 have had this house since the 1950's. It was run down then, and it's never been returned to its original glory. Here we are," Malcolm said, as he drew his car into a space in front of a narrow home of three stories on Elgin Crescent, it's metal gate standing open, and a short pathway leading to a series of painted concrete steps to a front door, painted black. "I'm told it's better inside than out."

"There are lights on," Ruth observed.

"That means Harry is already here."

Ruth had stuffed the hijab into her suitcase, but had tied her hair back into a ponytail, to change her appearance, just in case anyone was observing her. Malcolm carried her suitcase to the door, and he pressed the doorbell. The door was opened almost immediately, and when Malcolm saw how Harry and Ruth each looked at the other, he said a quiet goodnight, and retreated to his car.

"Come in, Daniela," Harry said, standing aside for her to pass him.

Once they were both inside the house, they stood in the narrow hallway, awkwardly watching one another.

"I think it's alright to call me Ruth while we're inside," she said, chiefly because she needed to speak before the silence became like a living thing.

"It's …... so very good to see you again," Harry said quietly. "I have a bottle of white wine I'm about to crack open, and I need someone to help me drink it."

Ruth smiled, and followed Harry into the spacious kitchen at the back of the house, where she was attacked by two bundles of fur. Ruth bent down to pat Harry's little dog, and then she affectionately greeted her cat, Fidget, picking him up, and holding him under her chin.

"Harry, you brought them with you."

"I thought I'd stay here for a few days …... with you," he said, unable to look her in the eye. "I think it would be …."

"Safer," Ruth said. She had been in his presence for less than two minutes, and already she was finishing his sentences.

"Yes. I can sleep in the room at the top of the stairs. My things are already in there. You can have the bedroom just along the hall. It has the biggest window, and it appears to have the most comfortable bed."

They each experienced a moment of discomfort at the mention of Ruth's comfortable bed. Once the moment had passed, Ruth looked across the table at Harry, watching him for signs that all was not as it seemed to be. She had to ask.

"What's wrong, Harry? Something is wrong, isn't it?"

Harry finished pouring them each a glass of wine, reached out to hand Ruth her glass, and then sat in a chair just across the corner of the table from her.

"Here's to us, Ruth. The world has conspired to destroy MI-5, and to tear us apart, and yet here we are."

They each sipped their wine, but Ruth noticed Harry had difficulty maintaining eye contact with her.

"How did today go?" she asked. "Did you manage to get the vaccine from Porton Down? Is Ros alright? Adam? How is he now?"

"The vaccine is safely in the hands of immunology staff at St Edwin's. Adam has been inoculated, and will soon be on the mend, and it will take more than a stroppy Iranian scientist to bring down Ros. The two women hated each other on sight."

Ruth smiled, and then took another sip of her wine. "And Jo?"

"Jo is tougher than she appears."

"I always knew she was strong, Harry. I take it she's well."

"Yes. Jo is well. She's looking forward to seeing you."

"And Zaf? Is he …... is he alright?"

Ruth knew Harry well enough to see the hesitation in his movements once she mentioned Zaf's name.

"Harry …... I'm much tougher than I was eight months ago when I had to leave. I've had to fend for myself."

"I know you have."

"Then tell me about Zaf. You can't protect me from the truth. Was it the virus? Did he succumb?"

At last, Harry looked her in the eye, and he told her everything he knew about Zaf, finishing with, "We don't know for sure, Ruth, but it's unlikely he's still alive."

That was when Ruth's steely restraint cracked, and she rested her elbows on the table top, and put her face in her hands, while her shoulders shook with her sobs. Harry struggled within himself, but then decided it was unfair to continue keeping her at a safe distance. He quickly stood, and reached for her, lifting her into his arms, where she crumpled against him, her face pressed against his white shirt. Harry held her tightly against him, while she cried for Zaf, for Danny and all the others they had lost, but most of all, she cried for herself and Harry, forced to part just as they were on the brink of something wonderful. They were different people now, and perhaps their time for finding happiness together had already passed them by.

He held her until she quietened, and then slowly he pulled away, and went searching for tissues. In the midst of her grief, all Ruth could think was how warm she felt while being held by Harry, and how much she'd missed the unique smell of him. Despite Zaf's tragic and senseless loss, and the uncertainty of life for an agent, Ruth had never felt safer than she did when Harry returned to the kitchen, a box of tissues in his hand, and a comforting smile softening his features ... a smile just for her.


	3. Chapter 3

Next morning, Ruth entered the Grid as Daniela Moreno, an analyst on short-term secondment from GCHQ. Tweaking the GCHQ records was an everyday task for Malcolm.

Harry went straight to his office, but watched from his desk, as Ruth was greeted by Grid personnel.

"It's wonderful to see you here …... where you belong," Malcolm had said quietly, before heading back to his desk.

Ruth had been shocked by Jo's appearance, trying hard to not stare at her very short, bleached hair, and the barely disguised fear in her eyes. The younger woman appeared to be operating on adrenalin alone. Ruth held on to her long after the hug had officially ended. "I hope you're being careful," Ruth said against her ear.

"I am. Really, I am," Jo replied, pulling away, and looking into Ruth's eyes. "Harry needs you, Ruth. He was …. different while you were away …... detached, not quite here."

Ruth nodded. "I know."

"I'll update you in a moment …... once you've greeted everyone."

"Jo ….. I'm ….. really sorry about Zaf."

"Nothing's official yet," Jo said quickly, her eyes bright with hope. "He could be anywhere. Knowing Zaf, he'll walk in here one day, accusing us all of being slackers."

Ruth didn't know how to reply to that, so she looked past Jo to where Ros hovered, clearly uneasy.

"Hello, Ros," she said.

"Hello …... do I call you Daniela …... or can I call you Ruth?"

"I answer to either."

"I hope you don't mind if I don't ….. you know …... hug you. I don't do hugging."

"I know."

"Harry's glad you're back, and because of that, I am also."

Ruth nodded, as Ros turned, and strode back to her own desk. She had been gone for over eight months, and yet nothing – and everything – had changed.

* * *

It took Ruth less than five days to find clear links between Dr Farrin Parsi and the governments of India, USA, and France. She was playing them all off against each other, and had planned selling her vaccine to the highest bidder. To whichever country her vaccine had gone, she would not have been useful once the exchange had taken place. Gregor Campbell had sanctioned her contacts, but his signature could easily have been faked. Ruth had a suspicion that until Harry had contacted him, Campbell had not been fully informed about everything Farrin Parsi had been planning.

"I'm so glad we had you here to clear that up," Harry said, leaning over the back of her chair, his hand resting on the desk, so that his face was close to hers. "Don't tell anyone, but before you arrived, I was contemplating bringing in all the London-based security personnel from the three countries, and applying some old-fashioned techniques of persuasion. I was rather looking forward to it, too."

Ruth turned to face him, her eyes flicking between his eyes and his mouth. "It's a good thing I had to come home, then, isn't it?"

"It's much more than a good thing."

"Harry," came Ros' voice from across the Grid. "About this monumentally temperamental Iranian scientist. What should we do with her?"

"For now, we do nothing," Harry replied.

* * *

Ruth and Harry left the Grid early on the fifth day, with Harry promising to take her to dinner.

"I'd rather eat in, if that's alright," Ruth had answered.

"I'm happy if you are," Harry replied.

Ruth headed for the shower, while Harry began making dinner. She stood under the hot water, attempting to scrub away all her fears about being found and sent to prison.

Dinner was quiet, with each of them lost inside their own thoughts. Eventually, Harry was the one to speak first.

"Ros told me today she almost has everything she needs for you to reclaim your own identity."

"Yes, she told me the same thing."

"Ruth …... I've been …... I'm worried you won't want to stay in London …... that you'll want your new life back."

Ruth darted him a quick glare across the table. "What makes you think that? Even if I wanted to, I can't go back."

"And you don't want to?"

"Of course I don't want to, you daft man. I never wanted to leave London in the first place."

Ruth noticed Harry's shoulders relaxing, and then he sat back in his chair, glass of wine in one hand, as he smiled at her, his expression unreadable.

* * *

"How long will you stay in this house with me?" Ruth asked, as a little later they stood side by side at the sink, washing and drying the dishes.

"As long as it takes. I can't leave you here alone, at least until your name is cleared. You need ….."

"Protection?"

Harry nodded. "You don't mind me being her?"

"On the contrary. I like having you here. It's such a change to have company, and you're rather good company, Harry."

He turned to her then, and beamed. Sometimes, Harry was very easily pleased.

"If the service wants to sell this house, I might put in an offer, and then we can live here together. I like it here ... like this."

Ruth had no idea how to reply to that, so she pretended to not have heard him.

Once they had cleaned up after dinner, Ruth excused herself and retired to her room. The air between them had become highly charged, and she wasn't sure she was up to dealing with it. Harry had taken to giving her long looks, and she had avoided his eyes, not sure how best to respond to him. She changed into the pyjamas she'd bought on her first day back in London, and crawled under the duvet. Sleep was elusive. She lay in the semi-darkness, listening to Harry down the hall, as he visited the bathroom, flushed the toilet, and then she heard the long rush of water as he showered. Ruth had to suppress thoughts of Harry in the shower, and she even turned over in bed, and closed her eyes, which just rendered the images more vivid.

When she awoke, it was still dark outside, and the street outside her window was quiet, but it was a sound from within the house that had woken her. She sat up in bed and listened. It was Harry, and he was talking to someone. Very quietly, she climbed out of bed, slipped on her slippers and bathrobe, and crept down the hallway, and across the landing to Harry's door, which was slightly ajar. She slid silently through the gap in the doorway, and rested her back against the wall, while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She could see the shape of him under the duvet, and he was moving his head from side to side, mumbling something about tug boats. Ruth knew she was taking liberties, but she crept across the carpet, and sat on Harry's bed, less than a yard away from where he was chattering about the Thames, tug boats, and Zaf. It was clear to Ruth he was not in any kind of distress, and perhaps he always talked in his sleep, so she was about to stand and leave, when he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, exhaling heavily in a long sigh.

"Are you alright?" she whispered.

Harry turned his head, and took a few moments to move from his dreaming state to being awake.

"How did you get in here?" he asked her.

"I walked. Down the hallway. You were talking in your sleep, and it woke me. Do you want to talk about it?"

Harry shook his head, still staring at her. Ruth looked around the room. It was sparse and uninspiring. She'd have nightmares, too, were she to have to sleep in it.

"Come to my room, Harry. You can sleep in my bed. There's plenty of room. It might help with the nightmares were you to have company."

In asking him to share her bed, Ruth had no ulterior motive. It simply appeared to be the most practical solution. "I'm talking about sleeping, Harry. I'm not trying to seduce you."

"Pity," he said, smiling.

"I'm going back to bed now. You can follow me. Or not. It's your choice, but you're very welcome to join me."

Back in her own room, Ruth slid over to the far side of her bed, should Harry want to join her in bed. She had only just settled against her pillow, when she heard a light knock on her bedroom door, and when it opened, Harry stood there. He slowly made his way to the bed, but stopped, his hand grasping the corner of the duvet.

"Are you sure about this?" he whispered.

"I'm sure. Get in, before we both freeze."

Harry removed his bathrobe, and then slid under the duvet, while Ruth watched. He wore a pair of striped blue and white pyjama pants, and a black t-shirt. She smiled to herself. Somehow, she had expected him to wear a shirt and tie to bed. It took a while before both were comfortable.

"It's been a long time since I slept with anyone," he said.

"Me too."

"I didn't mean that as …... I wasn't talking about sleeping in a biblical sense, Ruth."

"I know. Nor was I."

"Can I …... can I move closer to you? I'd like some of your warmth."

"Of course. We won't be the only ones on the bed who are curled up together for warmth and comfort."

"What?" Harry lifted his head and looked around. On the foot of the bed, Scarlet and Fidget were wound around one another, sleeping, although Scarlet had lifted her head when first she'd heard Harry's voice. Fidget slept on, clearly disinterested.

"Cross species loving," Harry commented wryly.

"I think it's a case of attraction between opposites."

"They certainly get on well," Harry added, sliding his feet under the covers until they rested against her feet. "Right from the start, they hit it off."

"Her gentle, forgiving nature provides a counterpoint to his moodiness and sudden bursts of temper."

"But that's no doubt because he doesn't always know what to say to her …... or how to tell her how he feels about her."

By this time, they both knew they were no longer discussing Scarlet and Fidget.

"But she forgives him anyway, and lets him share her sleeping space," Ruth added quietly.

"If they were ever to be parted again, he'd be distraught, so they sleep together to make their time together more …..."

"To give it meaning."

"Yes. Can I put my arms around you, Ruth? I promise to not touch you inappropriately."

Ruth turned towards him, and he saw she was smiling. He reached out, and slid his arm across her, and around her waist, his hand resting on the small of her back. He very carefully pulled her closer to him, until her head rested against his shoulder.

"You never know ... I might be up for some inappropriate touching," Ruth said, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

"You won't regret it, Ruth."

"I know."

Ruth was on the cusp of sleep when Harry again spoke, his mouth close to her ear, his breath tickling her sensitive skin.

"I was dreaming that Zaf was being taken away on a tug boat down the Thames, while I stood on the dock watching, unable to do anything about it."

"That's ... sad."

"It is, isn't it?" Harry said, waiting a few breaths before he continued. "I think it means …... that I believe Zaf isn't coming home …... and it means that I'm afraid I'll lose you again."

"Maybe."

"I don't want to lose you again, Ruth."

"You won't lose me. I ... I won't let it happen. Not again."

Ruth's last awareness before sleeping, was of the soft pressure of Harry's lips on her cheek. She fell into sleep smiling.

_Fin_

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**_A/N: Thank you to all readers, and especially to those who have left reviews. Much appreciated._**


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